John Porter and Kip  India
by KiplingKat
Summary: Trying to get back on active service after being rescued from a failed op in Pakistan, John Porter and his girlfriend Kip travel to India to make up for lost time, and instead end up in the middle of plot growing out of tensions in the region.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimers: _

_A. Don't own John Porter or the Strike back - verse, not making any money off this, and have severe doubts anyone could. _

_B. This story was written as a great conceit. I believe strongly in the rule of fanfic that reads: "No one gives a crap about your Mary Sue." But we were presented with a challenge on the IMDB Richard Armitage board: "You'll Never Guess Who I Ran Into…" in which "we can imagine what it would be like to bump into one of RA's characters and what occurs." So I came up with the original "So I Met John Porter…" story and a couple others. I beg forgiveness, and hope that readers can use my Mary Sue as a lens through which to get to know these characters better. _

_C. This takes place after events in Strike Back Two: Project Dawn, with the alteration that John Porter is recued at the beginning of the series._

_D. Much thanks to Caty for her input. _

Chapter 1

October 2011

"No."

"It's a milk run John. You just need to retrieve the intel from the Firm's asset in Kolkata. One simple face-to-face," Layla says from behind her desk.

"I won't bring her anywhere near this."

"And you won't have to. Just meet the asset alone, bring back what she has to say."

"Send Stonebridge."

"I don't remember saying this was a discussion, Sergeant," she snaps coolly.

_That's not fair_, I think as I snap to. Most of the time part Layla and I get on well enough we don't have to resort to military form to get things done. _Most of the time._

"Captain…"

She cuts me off. "At this time we have no other agents to send in that would not send up a red flare. You have not worked in that region before so you are unknown to them. You have been scheduled for this trip for months. To all appearances you're a tourist. It's not a high level asset, but Patel's reports indicate that we need to remain in regular contact or they might lose her. With Patel transferred to the ops center, they need someone to fill in the gap while we find another handler. I thought a little inter-agency favor would help Twenty in the long run, so I volunteered you….Look John, I understand your feelings and I would not ask this of you if I thought it would put her in danger," she finishes in a sympathetic tone.

It doesn't work. _If it's a milk run, why the hell were they sending me?_ _I've busted my arse to get back on the active duty roster. One cock up and I'm a fucking messenger boy._

If it was only my head on the block I wouldn't mind, but my capture made the Section send in the team to pull me out. Kyle. _Another man down. _When she debriefed me in hospital_, _Layla tried to reassure me that it was not my fault. Kyle's partner had moved into another room leaving him open before the building was secure. And everyone gave me credit for working out that I had been betrayed from the inside, even if it took Stonebridge and Scott to uncover Grant while while I was stuck in hospital. No one officially blamed me, but I feel like the mood in the Section says otherwise. I should have been more alert, more cautious. _He should not have been there because of me._

My cock-up probably didn't reassure Layla, who lost command of Section 20 to Colonel Grant and just got it back. Everyone was surprised Layla stayed on after Grant came in. I think having gotten a taste for the "Dark Side" of the freedom of Special Forces, she wanted Section 20 back. Now that she has it, she is walking a fine line. The monumental clusterfuck of Grant's regime has put the programme under a lot of scrutiny from the MoD and Layla is trying to keep everyone's noses clean to keep the Section alive. Which probably means keeping old soldiers with blotted records out of sight until the dust settles.

_Christ, I fucking hate politics._

As I walk down the hall to the conference room, I pass Stonebridge and Dani. _Twat._ But he's a twat who saved my arse so I nod politely they pass by, going over a file in low voices.

"Shipping out?" I ask, suddenly desperate to be in the loop again.

He half turns my way but keeps moving toward the lift. He has some place to be. "Yes. Quick run to one of our favorite vacation spots. Pint when I get back?" I don't bother to mention I'll be gone for three weeks, but nod and tell him to keep his head down with what I hope is a smile before I turn back toward the conference room with a file I know will only take me a few minutes to go over.

_Because it's nothing. _

I should be glad it's nothing. This was supposed to be _our _trip. We were going to do some hiking, celebrate Durga Puja with old friends, and then hop across the border into Bangladesh to visit Lexie. Not exactly the romantic getaway, but then _Kip_ is always up for anything. More importantly, it was time for us to make up for time lost over the last year; missing the holidays, my birthday, our anniversary…. _For being a complete wanker after I got back from Pakistan with a handful of shotgun pellets tearing up my leg._

She'd known the op had gone tits up somehow. During debriefing Layla told me the morning after I didn't make contact she got a message from _Kip_ asking if I was O.K. Once she knew that I was out of communication, she asked to be notified of anything drastic, cryptically notified Alex "there was a problem," and then waited.

So was I, in the dark. Alone. Time only marked by beatings and questions and putting me on display while I worked out how I had ended up there. Staring into that video camera, trying to look defiant while wishing to God someone was on the other side. That someone saw me. That _Kip_ did. That Lexie did. The first time that little red light came on I wanted them to be on the other end so much I couldn't breathe. That I was somehow looking at my girls and they were looking at me across the miles and pain and dark.

And then the light went off. I think that moment did more to break me than the ten days of isolation and torture did.

Beyond not revealing any information other than what is on your I.D. tags, the regular Army can make decisions on how to best survive imprisonment without dishonoring the U.K. or the service, but in the Regiment an older standard of honor applies and most troopers would rather take a shallow grave than collaborate by parroting some psychotic manifesto.

I was going to keep my mouth shut and I was going to kill that fucker if it was the last thing I ever did.

Then they held up that card. The one with my name. _My real name. HOW DID THE FUCK DID THEY GET MY NAME!_

That was when I knew I had been sold out by someone in the Section. And I had to read it so that everyone watching would know.

Now I'm relieved they weren't there, that Kip and Alex never saw that. It makes me sick that anyone saw that. _If the extraction team had come in minutes earlier, just five fucking minutes…_

I can't say how it felt to see my girls in the London hospital. There are no words for that kind of relief, happiness, whatever that moment is. I never wanted to let them go. Even Lexie hung onto me for a while, and _Kip_ kept holding my hand the entire visit. Would they have still held onto me if they known what I had done? I had faced Alex's disappointment in me before, I don't know if I could do it again.

Even so, after I got home the honeymoon did not last long.

For years I relied on working out every morning as a way of staying in shape, getting my frustrations out, and keeping a shred of pride in myself. Recovering from injuries, I could get to my bench to do the free weights for my upper body, but what I missed was running, being out in the grey light just as the world was waking up.

Stuck on the couch I went from bloke to bastard in seven days flat.

Alex was the first to bailout, returning to Oxfam in Bangladesh after I snapped at her and we got into a row. We'd patched things up via e-mail, but I have not spoken to her since. _Kip_ bore up longer but with her temper I should have known it would only last so long before she gave me both barrels and stormed out. For a couple of days. She had not even pulled onto Kensington before texting me to say she was just angry and needed some time away. My temper got better as I got more mobile with physical therapy, but we never quite came back from that. It was like a tiny playful spark of her affection was buried…

I try to keep from thinking that I've seen that before.

And then there was that night….

And now when we need time together to sort this out, work is interfering.

_For something they could send a bloody intern for. _

_Bollocks. _

I promised to tell _Kip_ what I could, to keep her informed enough to make her own choices, but I'm not sure this applies. I am still thinking it over as I park at the Greenwich campus. I smell the Thames in the chill Autumn sunlight slanting through the massive white buildings as I start across the grass to Queen Annes Court where I am meeting her to pick her up after her meeting with Greg.

_Her advisor,_ I correct myself as her sharp voice barks out across the plaza.

"HEY! YOU ARSEHOLE! THAT'S MY WORK!"

Someone dark and skinny sprints across the front of the building heading for Romney Road, slinging a familiar backpack over his shoulder. My girlfriend pounds after him as she alternates hurling curses with demanding "GIVE IT BACK!" like a kid on a playground.

I can't help but smile a bit as I take off across the grass to intercept him.

I'm about a hundred yards into the pursuit when my leg starts screaming at me that it is not ready for Olympic trials and the little bastard dashes up the steps of Queen Mary and ducks behind the columns into the courtyard. I veer off, heading for Park Row, hoping the classrooms and hallways will slow him down so I can catch him at the East Gate.

But as just as I reach the iron gate what feels like a donkey kicks me in the small of my back into the street. I can hear tires squeal and feel my shoulders bruise as I roll across a car hood. I'm trying to right myself in narrow lane when two hands grab the back of my jacket and propel me across the road giving me a few seconds to throw my hands up to keep from being slammed headfirst into the iron railing on the far side. I swing wide as I turn round, trying to put some distance between me and my opponent. _Too slow, too high_. He ducks, staying in close so he can throw another punch. I roll with it last second so his fist glances off my chin, block the next jab, but catch the roundhouse kick full in the torso which winds me and throws me off balance. I go with it put some space between us and gain my bearings.

_Right._

The pain in my leg is a muffled shout in the back of my head as I close with an opponent smaller than I had expected, of indeterminate east Asian extraction. By the clothes it is not the thief, but someone else. A shadow probably, now buying him time. Blocking a punch, I grab his leg with the next kick and swing him into the fence, staying inside his reach to snap his head back with an uppercut, following with two swift jabs in the solar plexus to keep him down.

I see the thief coming at me out of the corner off my eye and have to back off his Shadow to deflect the spinning back heel kick aimed at my head.

_Well trained, _I think as the momentum from the kick carries his fist into my ribs. Exhaling with the blow, I shift my weight back, ready for the next move when the thief shouts something and they both leg it, my ego soothed slightly by the stumbling, curled over run of the Shadow.

I'm not even tempted to follow.

I relax slowly, coming off the balls of my feet as I discover just how out of breath I am, gasping cold damp air in the grey shadows between the buildings facing the street.

_Shit._

And then I lean up against the railing, trying to keep from curling in a ball as I discover the muscles in my thigh feel like they are tearing themselves apart.

_**FUCK! **_

There's a couple civilians asking if I'm alright when I see the backpack dumped few yards down the street. One of them hands it to me as _Kip_, a plod trailing in her wake, pushes her way through the small crowd and hugs me close.

"Oh my God, John. Are you o.k.?" She strokes my face as she looks at me, her dark green eyes wide and skin pale, making the red line of the healed cut on her temple stand out.

_It was just a couple of muggers. A couple of muggers I should have been able to handle. _I force myself to stand upright and control my breathing as I clear my throat. "Yeah, yeah. 'M fine. Here. They dumped it."

"What? Oh…Thank you." She half throttles me again briefly and gives me a quick kiss I don't have time to respond to before opening the various pockets on the bag.

"Are you missing anything, miss?" The cop asks after a few moments of watching her root around in it.

"No, I don't think…No. It doesn't seem so."

"They didn't find the wallet before Mr. Hero stopped them, I suppose," the officer says, taking the bag from her to look it over.

"Oh, I don't carry it in my bag," _True,_ _Miss Tomboy carries a wallet and mobile in her pockets_. "That must be why they dumped it. "

"I'm surprised they left this," the officer replies, pulling her computer out.

"It's just a netbook, a glorified flashdrive with a keyboard. It was worth more to me for the work I had on it than any street value they could get for it. Thank you John." I get another kiss with a little linger this time, promise of rewards to come.

_If my bloody leg will stop killing me._

"Yes, very brave of you, but they could have been armed. Next time just give us a call and let the professionals handle it."

Before _Kip_ can correct him, I jump in, "Of course. Lost my head. Won't happen again."

I meet the sly sideways look she gives me with a wink.

"See that it doesn't. Can you give me a description of the suspects?"

"I'm surprised you couldn't pick it out" _Kip_ asks from my kitchen table a couple of hours later.

"I've heard enough Malay, Korean, Chinese, and Japanese to know it wasn't any of those. Beyond that…" I shrug as her brindle and white Boxer-mutt Pilot yanks on the rope toy I have I my hand. Languages always were a weak spot. In the Regiment I struggled to learn more than a tourist could get by on. I have to watch El Mensual sometimes just to keep from losing bits of the Spanish I learned in school.

"Angel? What the hell does this mean?" She waves a paper in my direction.

Trying not to limp, pull 55 pounds of furry resistance over the table.

"You o.k.?" she asks, looking down at my thigh.

"Yup. Er…That's asking you to attach the form certifying your birth certificate." She looks at me skeptically. "I'm fine. I just overdid it a little."

Still skeptical, she takes the form back. "Well, thank you," she says quietly. "And thank the Gods you were in the military and understand red tape."

"I don't understand it," I reply as Pilot flops on her side and I drag her across the lino. "I just know how to fill it out. If you actually understand it, you are listed as certifiably insane and sent to Whitehall." _I almost said, "…Intelligence," but I suppose I can't use that joke anymore. _

This is the last break before the final push into her thesis defense, but that means her student visa is running out so _Kip_ is also trying to get a Post-Study Work visa in order to stay in the U.K.. She starts growling as she sifts through mess of paper on the table, almost knocking over her wine glass. She's the only woman I met who growls. "Goddamnit! Where did I put that damn thing?"

_Gets robbed, not a problem. Deals with government bureaucracy, big problem._

_Bloody adorable. _

_Even when she is stressed out and stroppy,_ I think as I watch her bent over the table, her soft red and gold hair falling in waves and loose curls onto the pages as she mumbles to herself about what needs to be attached to what.

"You know, there is an easier way to keep you here than going through all this bullshit," I suggest from the doorway.

"What? Oh, heh." She blushes a bit, her pale skin easy to read as a book. "I don't think we're quite at that point of desperation."

_Desperation?_

"I don't know why I am bothering with all this," she continues. "It will just sit on some peon's desk for months before the next person up chain sends me a letter to tell me I forgot some other fucking form! The solicitor has been completely useless!"

"Then why don't you give it a rest," I snap, more abrupt than I meant to but she doesn't catch it. I take a deep breath before finishing more gently, "You can take care of it when we get back."

She breathes deeply for a moment. "No. I'm fine, I'm fine. Sorry. I just want to get this last bit done so I don't have to worry about it during our trip...I'm sorry this cut into one of our last nights at home."

I shrug, pull the rope from Pilot's teeth, put it up on the fridge, and head into the garage. _Kip_ has too much on her plate to deal with my bullshit.

_I'm not stewing. It was a joke. _

_Oh…Bugger! _Even with the painkillers, I grit my teeth as I kneel slowly on a wad of rags on the floor to get down where I have the proper angle to work on the Roadrunner's quarter panel_. I broke my ankle during a training jump when I was with the Parachute regiment and I was back on Active Duty in six weeks. These days…_

_These days I get my arse kicked by two muggers a good two stone lighter than me. _

_These days I let the Section down. I let Layla down. I fucked up and got caught, and now I'm handholding civilian assets. Low level civilian assets. _

_These days Stonebridge is ten years younger than I am._

I freeze a moment as the anger flips into a cold knot that grips my stomach.

_Fuck it. _

I've sufficiently lost myself in fine sanding the epoxy fill on the contour of the wing when I hear at knock at doorframe.

"All done...then?" I take my dust mask off and I slowly pull to my feet to find myself looking at her tits. Her shirt unbuttoned and no bra, the sweet swell of her breasts swinging slightly under the fabric. She smiles gently with a familiar heat in her eyes as she walks over to give me one of her patented full-contact kisses.

Warm and strong, her perfume smells of faintly lemon blossoms and summer sunlight and she tastes of sweet wine. I run my hands up and down her long curves and hold her tight.

When we come up for air, I rest my forehead on hers a moment. "Hold that thought, I have to wash my..."

But she slips her shirt off and lays it on the floor over the small pile of rags.

Then she slips to her knees.

Then...

"Oh god, yeah!"

Soft and warm and slow until I need it hard and hot and fast, taking her time, savoring it, until she drinks it all down.

Much later,_ God, I love this woman _is the only thought that pushes it way through the haze as I slide down the side of the car onto the floor.

That and _I'm never going to be able to smell bondo again without going to half mast._

She says nothing except a couple quiet "Ow's" and chuckling as she slowly straightens her knees out before sitting next to me, taking my hand and laying her head on my shoulder. A nice, comfortable moment.

Until she catches me staring at the red line on her temple.

"Stop it."

I exhale sharply as I look down at our hands. I didn't even know I was doing it. "Sorry."

"Stop that too."

In bed later as she sleeps, I can feel her warm body, her ankle hooked over mine. I stare at the ceiling, listening to her quiet breathing.

_"Desperation_."

_I don't need to tell her about the meet._


	2. Chapter 2

_Note:__ I__ know__ it's __against __all __the __rules, __but __each __chapter __will __be __told __from__ an alternate __POV. __John __told __Chapter __one, __Kip __gets __Chapter__ two,__ and __so __on. __Following __a __very __regular __pattern, __I __promise._

_The __air __is __filled __with __spices._ As many times as I have read that description, standing in a narrow lane on the high walled warren of the old Kolkata bazaar, I am surprised to find it was not a romantic allusion but literal truth as our noses are almost assaulted by pepper and cardamom from the spice warehouses just behind the lane. Standing by a teashop eating our curries, we watch our teas being individually brewed in little tin pots over a coal brazier and drink from lovely porcelain cups with no handles. Watching the congenial chaos of the crowd in the warm evening light, I feel I could almost glimpse the pattern of activity, ancient and eternal, mysterious to outsiders, but then it was gone again, like a trick of the light. In the midst of the madness, stillness as I live wholly in my senses for this one small moment of perfection.

From the large street ahead of us the sound of drums wafts in with the voices of the crowds surrounding the massive pandals, richly imaginatively decorated temporary shrines to the Goddess dotting the streets during Durga Puja, the festival of Durga the Invincible. The dark is gathering, btu the crowds are only getting started, and the drummers still play in front of the shrines and the colorful glow of the coloured lights adds an air of mystery and laughter to the night. My friend Dileep, who has returned to Kolkata from London after finishing his Ph.D., has invited us "pandal hopping" along with some family and friends for the afternoon. Moving from elaborate themed shrine to elaborate themed shrine, listening to the drum music and eating from street vendors.

"I don't think that was what Rowling had in mind," Dileep chuckles conversationally, setting his empty cup down as he shakes off his shock at the Harry Potter themed pandal we just came from.

"I don't know," I counter. "I think Mrs. Weasley was very Mother Durga."

This immediately sparks a merry discussion among the group of ancient Goddess analogs in modern literature, but instead of smiling with amusement John looks to the street. He's little out of place in his jeans and white dress shirt among the traditional and dhoti and sari, including my own. I run my hand down his back and feel the tension there.

Bengal has been celebrating Durga Puja for hundreds of years, so it has become a very organized affair, fencing off lanes keeping the flow of foot traffic moving. But still, it is a crowd and John doesn't handle crowds very well. Not for this long. He is being patient for my sake, but I know from the set of his shoulders and tightness of the narrow band of muscle across his back, there is part of him that wants to put his back to a safe wall rather than be surrounded by the crush of humanity he can't keep track of.

I fall out the literary conversation to look at him with concern.

At which he visibly tries to buck up with an attempt at a casual smirk.

"You're such a rotten liar," I sigh, as the group moves on towards the main thoroughfare. "Just one more?"

"What do you keep praying for?" he asks, his nerves expressing themselves as an impatient growl as I stop to buy a small garland of marigolds from a street vendor.

"Gee, what could I possibly be asking a compassionate warrior goddess for?" I look at him significantly, breathing in the flowers' sharp dusty scent as we move out into open air.

He says nothing, but smiles that oddly warm closed lip smile of his as he pulls me close, almost kissing me before remembering we are on public street in India. Instead he rests his forehead against my own briefly, a gesture that I have come to realize can sometimes be more intimate then a kiss.

_There __have __been __a __few__ rough __times_, I think a while later as I toss my garland at the feet of the idol and fold my hands in prayer. Small hours when I woke up alone in the dark with John and his sneakers missing. Depending on the time I made a cuppa or started breakfast. When he got back most of the time he just held me for a while. Occasionally he talked. The fortunate part of it, if one could call it that, what seemed to affect him most is not the job itself, but the small unclassified moments; a look on someone's face before they died, a voice of a child he could not help. These he could speak of. Too many times, I do not know what to say. I can only listen to him and accept him. Tell him he is a good man that I love and hold him. I get the impression that by the time he speaks to me, me has already processed most of it.

But Pakistan.

Captured…_tortured_ I force myself to think the word as I remember the bruises and cuts, the rope burns on his body that still make me choke back hot tears of sympathy and impotent rage. _Bastards!_

Yet this is his calling.

_Mother__ Goddess, __She __of __Fierce __Compassion, __protect __my __mate, __my __love, __and __help __him. __Help __us..._

After exiting the pandal, we make our excuses to Dileep and his family, thanking him again for a wonderful afternoon. We will be here for a few more days, so we will see more of them. I want to watch the culmination of the festival, the sunrise procession from the temple to immerse the statue of the Goddess in the Ganges. After that we are taking the train upriver to Varanasi, old Banares, the ritual center of Hinduism, for a few days, before spending a week hiking in Dudhwa National Park. Though from John's temper, I am thinking of switching it up and going to the park first.

We cut our way through the bazaar again, making our way to one of the main street where we last saw taxis. John plowing ahead through the crowds as I trail in his wake. Suddenly he stops, reaching behind him to detach my hand from the back of his shirt. "Wait here, be back in a sec."

_O.K__…__.Maybe __he__ sees __a __taxi __down __the __road?_

I wait. For a bit. John knows better by now. I wander a short way down the street toward another pandal where a group of dancers are starting the aarti, a graceful ceremonial dance the goes with the fire offering. I hop up on the base of a lamppost to get a better view over the crowd, watching the graceful dancers in their colourful sari weaving intricate patterns with the smoldering lamps of lighted wicks. I am starting to sway to the lively tune when a feel fingers digging themselves into my hip.

"Get down!" John growls. His expression shows no patience for the whim of enjoyable moments. My confusion turns to anger as he practically drags me away. This is why I hate traveling with people, they always ruin it somehow.

John glances back at me, and then slows, and then stops. His shoulders heaving as he exhales before he turns to my mutinous glare. "Sorry. I just…I just need to get somewhere quiet."

"You didn't need to be a jerk about it."

"Sorry."

The verbal pax smooths out the edge of the dispute, but not the tension. There is a widening gulf between us even now crammed up together in a taxi as we head back to the hotel.

"I have to go out tomorrow morning," He says into the oddly heavy silence despite crash of drums outside the car windows.

"Why?"

He inhales again, looking away. _He__'__s __lying.__"_Meeting an old mate of mine for a coffee, just to catch up."

"What time?"

"Early. You can sleep in," he replies absently.

"What is going on?"

He is not surprised by my skepticism, and turns toward me for the first time since we got in the cab. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with." I stew, staring out the window for another two blocks before he gently takes my arm and mouths, "_Work_."

_Oh...Well why didn't you say so?_

He blinks in surprise. There is a moment of open mouthed floundering followed by a truly apologetic look.

_You're __an __idiot."_Will it be for long?"

He swallows, hard, before answering, "No, it's just one short visit. Catching up, then we'll be on our way."

"O.k."

"O.k."

My friend recommended the hotel, but I don't think he ever stayed there. The ostentatious appointments and gilded accents too much for our tastes, we spent 15 minutes just making fun of the suite. John holds me closely, carefully, in the elevator, but ...I try to brush off the tension that seems to be poisoning the air. _We're __here __to__ have __fun,__ we're __here __to __re-connect. __Don't __be __paranoid. __Be __open._

I follow John in the bathroom, washing my face and stripping down. A mischievous glint in my eye as I doff my petticoat and underwear and wrap the silk sari around my waist, throwing the length of it over my shoulder so that weight holds it against my breasts, barely, and saunter into the bedroom.

He's asleep. He slept on the plane too. _Bastard,_ I think as I lay in the bed next to him and gently brush the tips of his short hair.

I watch him curled up under the thin blankets. _Lord,__you __did__ make __a __beautiful __man._ Even in sleep, his face mashed against the pillow, his sharply defined features convey an inherent masculine beauty that is neither pretty nor brutish, but essential, pure.

_Even __if, __with __his__ muscular__ torso __and relatively __slender __limbs, __he __is __kinda__ built __like __a __horse,_ I smile to myself. I would never say that to him of course. The ensuing "hung like a…" comments would never end.

I smirk and snuggle close, nuzzling his neck.

He pulls away.

...I run my hand down his body only to have it smacked as he swats at me.

_Oh._

I climb gently out of bed and leave the sari on the floor, tossing aside the tiny chemises John has gotten me for various holiday and birthday presents for an old t-shirt and ganny panties.

I try not to think that the only time John has turned me down is almost immediately after when I asked, "More, please." I try not to think that I have never turned him down. I try not to think about the fact that he has not initiated since he got back from Pakistan. I try to be adult and not admit it hurts.

That on top of everything else, it just hurts.

After he got back from Pakistan I researched the more intense emotional issues he would have to deal with. The irritability, hypersensitivity, the nightmares, those I expected. John is John. Still waters run deep and I have to read the slightest indications to see the current. There is something else.

I thought that the enforced downtime would allow him to truly relax, process things. Instead it wound him up like a cheap watch. Consigned to his couch or limping around his kitchen, what might be happening at the office quietly consumed more and more of his conversation. While he outwardly understood, the more he was told by Lt. Thompson to rest and complete his PT, the more on edge he got as if it was deliberate slight. Typically when John and I go out, he stays close, to my usual enjoyment somewhat possessively. Hovering nearby looking tall, very masculine, and slightly threatening to anyone who gives me more than an appreciative glance. But since John returned from Pakistan, he does not just hover. He is attached. Tonight I caught him scowling at Dileep for the most innocuously friendly gestures.

If I was to put a label to it, I would almost say he is...desperate.

And the less he speaks.

John has an old soldier's disdain and distrust of psychologists compounded repeated screening as part of special forces and a brief but rotten experience with marriage counseling. He accepts I was helped by therapy, but every time I suggest it to him I am met with a formidable battery of resistance ranging from humor to flat _I__ do __not __want __to __discuss __it __so __I __am__ going __to __read__ my __manuals __and__ reports,__ go __for __a __run, __or __work __on__ the __car_ silence.

And the gulf widens.

_Too__ wide __for __me __to __sleep __here __tonight_. I drag the duvet from the foot of the bed and in a very adult manner close the door quietly behind me as I go to sleep on the couch in the suite.

After having a nice good cry, I sleep very well.

So much so I do not hear John waking, or leaving. Or walking around me when he left the note on the coffee table near my head that I find after blearily answering the door for room service.

_I__ was __an __arse. __Will __make__ it __up__ to __you. __Promise. __Love, __J._

I am just exhausted by this point. Breakfast and sex isn't going to do it.

I want him to tell me what the hell is going on. I want him to share. I want him to laugh and smack my ass and look at me with that warmth that goes straight to my heart. I just want to feel close to him again. I want to feel that warm little bubble of togetherness again, rather than tiptoeing around each other as we share space.

But after everything he has been through, is he still there? I'm not stupid, I know that many wives...significant others, in my position end up going from lover to caregiver. It's not that extreme yet thank the Gods, but is that our future?

_My __mind __is __running __ahead __a__ mile__ a__ minute.__ Let's__ see__ what__ he __has __to __say__ when__ he __gets__ back._ I down the O.J. but leave the rest to cool as I step into the shower, trying to collect myself.

I am throwing on a pair of jeans when my cell rings. I don't recognize the number, but answer anyway.

"Hel...?"

"Don't ask any questions," John's voice cuts me off, barely intelligible in an even lower tone and rapid fire speech. "Just get our bare necessities into my rucksak. There's a doorway through the kitchens to the rubbish bins in the back, I will meet you there in five minutes. Do you understand?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

_Fuck. Where is she?_

The big engine beneath me idles as I watch the door from behind the bins. I commandeered the Kawasaki from some flashy tosser out front after he walked into the lobby. Like most kids he has the mix running rich for power, forcing me to twitch the throttle periodically to keep the engine from stalling. This makes noise when I least want it, and I hope the patrol car that crawled by is the extent of their observation of the alley. At least it is the cops, but I still try not to think about what could happen if she is caught.

I wait, gritting my teeth and working out my next move.

The meet with the asset went as well as could be expected. A programmer from the local satellite installation, she was a twitchy little bint who wasn't going to give me anything. I did all the talking, giving her the alias and description of the case officer who would be taking over, hand holding her as my Boss required. The mixed blessing was since she gave me nothing, I was carrying nothing back. I could relax for the rest of the trip.

I rang the Section with the disposable mobile I had bought for the day and left a message with the Duty Officer before hailing a cab back to the hotel. Hopefully breakfast and a morning in bed will make up for being a twat yesterday.

But then my taxi came round the corner to the hotel into a small pond of flashing lights. Cops.

_Shit._

I made like a tourist and kept looking forward as we cruised through, the cabbie apologizing the whole way as he tried to find a place to park. I had the taxi drop me off at far end of the hotel and walked back to the main entrance, watching the cops go in. Two more passed me on the way to the pool to cover the side gates.

As they went by, I heard _Kip'_s name in the radio traffic with what I assumed to be our room number.

_SHIT!_

I called _Kip_ and thanked god she did not lose it. Then I surveyed my choices. The cops only left two out front and none watching the squad cars. I lifted a Berreta and a second clip of ammo from a trunk some plod had left unlocked, hotwired the bike, and pulled round to the kitchen doors and waited, the pause giving me a couple moments to think. _What now?_

_If the government was tailing me, why didn't they pick me and the asset up at the meet? Why were the police after Kip and not looking for me? _

No idea what is going on, no plan.

The metal door of the kitchen bursts open with a waft of cinnamon steam and shouts following _Kip_. I rev the bike up and pull 'round, glad to see she is not only wearing my rucksack, but has my boots tied to the side. I forgot to ask her to grab those and I have a feeling that trainers were not going to do for much longer.

She does not wait to be told but climbs on behind me, gripping my hips tight with her thighs and putting her hands to the gas tank. Ready to ride.

_Good girl. _

"What's happening?" she asks as I pull out of the alley onto the side street, pausing to check for cops.

"Don't know." They spot us and I feel her hug my back as I open the throttle, tearing off to the next major street.

Despite the brief flash of enjoyment I get from the smooth acceleration to 40 in five seconds, I grabbed the bike because it was more maneuverable than a car. Traffic is not too bad at this hour of a holiday, but the racing engine is still useless on the narrow busy streets of a city. _Kip_ had ridden with me enough to know what to do, but my rucksack is carrying all the major equipment we would need for camping and so adds about 50 pounds to the top of the bike. I have to watch the turns.

I hear the sirens behind us and pull down a narrow lane, weaving between shop keepers opening their booths and suppliers carrying bundles of wares for sale. The sirens fade behind us and I accelerate, hoping to beat them to the end of the street.

I beat the cars, but a pair of blue motorcycles pulls up as I dart out of the lane onto the main drag.

Cursing, I swerve; barely keeping the bike upright with my foot as I pull round and open the throttle up, hoping the sheer power of this monster can outpace the city allotted bikes. It's my only option now. This is their city, not mine, so my only hope is to get outside their cordon or they will chase us down like rats in a maze.

I push the yellow through an intersection in hope they are not as crazy as I am. I see the expressway on-ramp off the cross street, and make what amounts to a lunge for it as I feel _Kip_ gasp and stiffen at my back. One of them is crazy enough to follow my wide arc into oncoming cars and I see him go over the bonnet of one in my rearview before I nudge the bike over the median to race up the ramp.

_Sorry mate..._

I open the throttle again, racing past the morning traffic as fast as I dare on an overbalanced bike. We're still too visible out here and it is only a matter of time before another unit spots us, but I'm not going to run blind around a city I don't know. I need to know what's going on, and there is only one person I can think of that might be able to help me find out what the fuck is happening.

As unhappy as she might be about it.

Easing through a break in the median, I pull us round and tear arse the other way, heading for Shibpur across the river.

What should take twenty minutes takes forty as I route through two extra expressways. After leaving the Vidyasagar bridge the transformation from the modern city is startling. Once you get away from the riverfront, it becomes clear the city does not invest much in the communities in floodplain on this side of the river. This is the other side of India, old shops held up by bailing wire and family will as vendors turn out corrugated tin doors to hawk their wares from. Those without a building work from under cheap blue tarps along the railway tracks. But even in the gathering crowd along the streets, two westerners on a bike as nice as this are going to stand out, so I keep to the side streets. I stop frequently, struggling to work out the addresses and find my bearings. I studied the map of Kolkata but focused on the tourist areas where we would be, not this far out.

_Kip_ asks what I am looking for once and accepts my short explanation of "a friend" with silence.

Manasa Charmar was betraying her country for the money. Coming from a family of tanners and therefore a member of the untouchable caste, she had schooled himself in computer programming only to find social strictures clung no matter how vital or good her skills. With her parents dead, it was left to her to pay for her siblings' schooling out of the lowest classes. Not something you can do on a government software geek's pay. So the MoD was paying for Manasa's sister to attend Cambridge Medical School "on scholarship." She was not happy about it, but better that than see her sister waste her brains as a poor wife in a slum. A programmer doesn't normally have access to the raw data that we need, but she can get it in an emergency so we keep her on the line.

A British agent showing up on her doorstep is not going to make her day, so I'll go in the back. Stashing the bike and pack in brush behind the small house above the shops, I take _Kip's_ hand as we casually stroll through the backyard past Chamar's car and up the stairs. She stands watch and cover while I pick the lock. The noise from the door brings Charmar to the narrow hall where she starts with the shouting.

"What the hell are you doing here? Are you insane? You could ruin me!"

"Well, I certainly will if you don't keep your voice down, love." I reply, moving past her to check the front windows and draw the curtains.

"Who are you?" she asks behind me. She's more angry than scared. Good. "Pissed off" I can work with, "panicked" I don't have the time.

_Kip _gives her name as she extends her hand into empty air as Charmar just glares at her. She'll pick up on the proper protocol of home invasion as we go. _Kip_'s opposite physically, Manasa is tiny, delicate, and dark, yet they are dressed eerily similar in jeans and blue t-shirts, the only difference in the language of the logos.

"What are you doing here? Patel promised..."

"Well, Patel isn't here and we need your help. Can you monitor police channels?" I ask, pointing to her PC.

She swears. But whether she is a nice girl or because she saw the Baretta tucked into the back of my trousers, she sits down at the desk of computer equipment that takes up most of a wall of the tiny front room. Two minutes later she is listening for word about us on the police band, her voice mumbling translation over the rapid-fire Bengali.

"...You stole a motorcycle? A nice motorcycle. Good taste ...Mr. Porter." I was expecting that, and so don't react. "It sounds like...They're still checking in the city," she breathes a sigh of relief.

"Do they say why they are looking for us?"

"For her, you're just an accomplice. Possession of classified material. Shit, I am so farked," she groans.

"What!" Kip's voice barks behind me as she finally explodes.

I hold out my hands to try to head off her temper. "Honey, shh. shh. We'll get to the bottom of this. I promise. Did anyone give you anything to bring here?"

"Oh Gawd John, TSA questions!"

"Look," I take her arm, but gently "...if you don't want to spend the next six months in a jail cell, I need you to get a grip and help me figure out what is going on."

She breathes deep, trying to steady herself, but she still snaps when she answers. "No, no one gave me anything."

"Well, whatever it is, they didn't find it in your hotel room," Manasa adds.

"This is a set up, but why?" Kip glares at me.

_Shit._ Why else set up an author and college student whose military expertise doesn't extend beyond the 19th century?

_My fault. Christ._

"I'll work this out. I just need you to keep cool. O.k.?" I turn to Charmar. "Have they listed any aliases?"

"They know about your disposable phone, if that is what you mean."

_Fuck._ I can't call the Section again.

"Can you route a signal to the U.K. without detection?"

"...No, no way. If I had access to the equipment at the installation, yes. But there if no way I'm putting my IP on the map to be evidence of espionage. No fucking way."

"You can alter the address."

"Which would still track back to my machine with the right equipment!"

I keep my voice steady to keep her steady, but she's slipping from my grasp. "Can you get us into your installation?"

"Are you insane!"

"Oh, will you two just stop!" Kip interjects. "Use mine."

"What?"

"It's in the pack. You can alter the address and then we can chuck it after you talk with Lt. Thompson."

"Are you sure?"

"After almost having it snatched, I backed it up on my computer at school and have the research and my thesis on a flashdrive. It's disposable."

I barely catch the last words as I am already out the door to bring the pack in. After rooting through it, pleased to see K_ip_ packed heavy on necessities, light on clothes, I hand Manasa the netbook.

"Password?"

_Kip_ shakes her head. "I know you two are going to be a while, so do you mind if I make some tea?" she asks, jerking her thumb toward the kitchen.

"Oh yeah," Manasa replies from his desk, watching the tiny netbook power up. "Electric kettle's by the microwave."

I give Charmar a quick glance, but she is already lost in her computer, hunched over the keyboard in that crouch universal to computer geeks world over. She'll be fine for now so I follow _Kip_ into the kitchen.

"You o.k.?"

She roots through the containers on the counter, finding a teabag which she throws in a bright yellow coffee mug that she slams down on the counter. "...No. No, but I will be." I put my hand to her back, but she keeps on watching the kettle. "I'd wanted to see India, but I would rather forgo experiencing their criminal justice system."

"You won't. I'll get you out of here."

"What about you?" She finally turns to look me in the face for the first time since yesterday.

"Depends on how Layla wants to handle it. I may be here a while."

She nods, but her lips compress into a narrow line and she blinks back tears as she turns pour the tea, asking politely. "Want some?"

_Damn it._ "No."

There's nothing else to say, so I go back in the front room. _This isn't fair to her. None of it has been. And she knows it as well as you. _

"What the hell is that?"Charmar says into the silence.

"What?"

"The start-up was taking forever, so I looked at the memory space to see if it could handle the link up. There is a massive file here, but it's not showing up on my of your directories. "

_Kip_ joins me in looking over Charmar's shoulder. "Is it a virus?"

"Too big. There no way something like this could travel through a cookie or even e-mail."

I swear, suddenly feeling like an idiot. "When they snatched your bookbag."

The same realization dawns on her face."They uploaded that?"

"You're a high tech mule, Honey. Too big to transmit, too dangerous to be caught with."_ But was she supposed to be arrested, or was someone in the Indian government tipped off?_ "Can you see what it is?"

"I'm trying."

It takes her a few minutes, but she manages to crack into the raw code.

"This is...wait..." She scans through the lines for few minutes more, mumbling and cursing to herself until her voice raises again. "This is a mimic. It looks like satellite code, but it isn't. It's looping."

"You mean like looping a video feed in a heist movie?"_ Kip_ asks.

"Yeah, someone is trying to blind our satellite detection network."

My turn. "Can you tell who?"

"No. I've never seen anything like this. Damn, this is good," she says in wonder, scanning through the code. "I'm torn between being really mad and really...wow..." She's actually starting to chuckle in admiration.

"Trying to blind an entire nation's satellite system?" _Kip_ pushes the conversation along. "That's insane. There's no way they could pull that off for more than five minutes."

"Not the entire system. Just one unit," Charmarreplies absently, distracted by the code.

_Still, one satellite on a playback loop would arouse suspicion with the same data feed coming in day after day...But the thieves never loop the feed for the entire building, just one elevator._ "What part were they trying to hide?"

"I'll see if I can find coordinates."

I keep my ear to the police band while Manasa scans the code. She suddenly turns to her computer to pull up a GPS program and enters a latitude and longitude.

"Here." She points to a map on the screen, a blue dot indicating the North Eastern chunk of India that juts between China, Bangladesh, and Myanmar. "The border of Arunachal Pradesh. Which also tells us who."

"Who?" _Kip_ asks.

"The Chinese," I answer.

"They've had a claim on that region since independence," Charmar explains. "Even tried to take it a couple times. Then they decided it wasn't worth the trouble to administrate."

_Kip_ then asks the obvious question. "So what changed their minds?"


	4. Chapter 4

"This is the point in the plot where someone never asks the sensible question," I say as John rummages through his backpack on the floor.

"What?"

"Why don't we just go to the authorities and turn this over to them? Explain that I knew nothing about this. There is a police record that I was mugged."

He glances up at me. "And how would you explain knowing about the program?"

"Well..." I start to gesture toward the desk where Manasa is sitting before I realize I would be destroying her life by telling the police the truth, and I would be destroying mine by lying for her. "Shit."

John has pulled everything out of the rucksack and turns it half inside out. "If we turn ourselves in now, we will disappear into a very dark hole for months, years maybe, until someone gives a damn to bargain for the release of a pair of western spies working for the Chinese. I am not going near the Indian authorities until we can cut a deal." There is a tearing sound a John pulls open a velcro sealed panel in the bottom and hands me a passport. "Here you go, love."

"Oh, I'm so touched. A fake I.D. of my very own. How can I ever thank you."

"Thought you'd like the name," he replies defensively as he re-seals the pocket with our real passports inside.

I open the booklet to read, "Josephine Randall." Second Lieutenant Joseph H. Randall, Mom's "Uncle Howard," died in the Dieppe Raid. That forces a smile out of me. _That's…actually very sweet._ "Thanks. By why...?"

"After the Caribbean, I wanted to be able to get out of a country fast if we had to. Had Dani draw that up last year. Though next time, I'm packing a fucking sat-phone," he grumbles as he starts splitting our gear up between his rucksack and my small backpack that I threw in at the last minute. Most of the time, I don't even think about the fact that my boyfriend works with his ex. John's just not the type to do that to a person. But right now, with all the problems we're having that don't involve India or China, I have to stifle wave of annoyance. It takes me a moment to see that John is handing his boonie hat to me. "Tuck your hair up in that. You stick out a mile here. Make sure your mobile is off. Any luck?"

"This thing is a piece of crap," Manasa says, tossing the netbook to John who stuffs it in my pack. "But your duly cryptic message is sent."

_Traffic signal,_ _have to turn right, ring you from the next stop. Tourist._

"The last C.O. of the section moved an entire operation here without the Indian Government's permission and it turned into a colossal fuck up. Left a lot of bad blood behind," John explains to me quietly as he pulls the straps of his rucksack tight and I zip up my backpack. "Layla is not going to extract us from here, we have to get across the border."

"Well, go then!" Manasa yells, "I don't...Oh shit!"

John darts to the window, "Out the back. Move!"

Hearing pounding on the front door downstairs, I grab my knapsack and run to the backdoor. Manasa complains the entire way down the hall.

"You fucking bastard! You promised! You promised I wouldn't get in trouble!"

"Do you really want to stay here and explain how you knew me?"

What follows I can only imagine is a string of Bengali profanity.

I slam the back door open and run down the steps. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a police officer rounding the corner of the building and take off the other way.

I hear the hollow booming crack and feel the chips from the corner of the house strike my cheek. I freeze.

_Holy fuck! He shot at me!_

I turn back towards cop. He looks as shocked as I feel.

But only for a second as John comes barreling down the steps, rucksack first, and slams into the cop. "Go!" he yells at me as picks up the cop's gun from the ground. Turning quickly he fires at the corner of the house, driving more officers back. As the first officer starts to get up, John pistol whips him and starts running toward me, "Go!"

I go, running down the drainage ditch/dirt road between the streets. John quickly catches up, Manasa trailing in our wake.

"_Kip_! Here!" John and Manasa disappear through an open backyard gate and I follow, running through a small and neat garden until we exit through to the next street. I pound the pavement after them, adrenaline giving a sense of unreality to the entire moment, picking out odd little details as they flash by. The chipped paint on a wall, the crumpled grocery bag in the gutter, the bent wire on a chain link fence as John uses a corner pole as a pivot and whips around the corner into an empty lot. We run through and then turn the opposite way on the next street, doubling back. John ducks down another gap between the houses, pushing both of us back against the wall for a moment as he watches behind us.

Then he pats my chest and whispers, "Go."

I can only suppose he means down the alley, so I trot that way, expecting a cop to swing out in front of us at any second. Miraculously, he does not. Keeping careful watch, we cross back over the dirt road and through to Manasa's street, maybe a block down from where the horde of cops are gathered about her building. I pause at the alley end and John catches up, dropping his rucksack. "Stay here."

Walking down the sidewalk, he almost strolls at he takes something from his pocket. He stops next to a white Hyundai and in what seems to be a second he is inside the car and bent over the wheel stalk.

A swarm of cops a block away looking for him and he steals a car. That is testicular fortitude.

"That is scary." Manasa says from behind me. "I feel so secure about my car now," she adds as John backs the car up behind a truck. He pops the trunk and gets out, holding the driver's side door, gun in hand as he says to Manasa, "You drive."

She pauses, but I push her at the car. "You're the only chance we have of getting out of here."

"Honey?" He looks to the back as he takes the backpacks from me. "I'm sorry, but you're the one they are looking for."

I swallow the protest and climb in the trunk. "It's going to be alright, I promise." John says as he squeezing my hand briefly before he shuts the lid.

I feel the car shift as they get in, and hear Manasa as the car starts to move, "Where to mister?" Her voice is muted, but the sarcasm is still loud and clear.

John's voice is closer, next to my head. He must be lying in the backseat. "Howrah Train Station."

During the long silence that follows, the car turns several times until we reach the main drag. I can hear the traffic honking it's way past us. Thank the Gods it is October and the temperature outside is comfortable, the trunk is already becoming stifling. John's voice comes clearer now. "Find one of the city parking lots near the station. One that has two entrances if you know any."

Minutes later, I feel the car turn and jolt a bit as it goes over a small bump, then a brief stop before it rolls on.

"Towards the back...That one."

We park and Manasa pops the trunk lid. Thank the Gods. I clamber out slowly and John is already out of the Hyundai and opening the door of a grey Renault parked next to it. Scanning the dash then flipping open the sunshade, he finds the parking ticket clipped there and shoves it in a pocket. "Thank god for predictable people. Honey, I'm sorry..."

The hatch back pops open, there is a cover there that effectively makes another trunk. As Manasa gets in the passenger side and he leans over the wheel to rip open the stalk cover and hot wire the car. "They'll have the most men posted at the station where they can scan faces. Hopefully all we have to do is get past a few cruising patrols. Good," he says as the car revs up. He pops the cover back on. "_Kip_."

I feel rebellion rearing its head in the pressure behind my eyes, but cave to the common sense. I still communicate my anger with an icy,"Yeah, sure."

"Do you always treat your girlfriends like that?" Manasa asks as I climb in the trunk and reach for the lid.

"Shut it." John replies before his voice is muted by the lid closing.

An hour, several turns and a long straightaway later, John pops open the trunk and helps me out. We've obviously left the city and parked at a road-side store in a little mudbrick farming town. A series of blindingly colorful booths are stretched down road, doing a fairly brisk turn of business with people from an equally colorful bus waiting under the palms. Manasa is still stewing. He surreptitiously hands the gun to me, "Get some drinks, use the toilet if you have to. I'll be back."

He starts that casual stroll around the corner.

I can't hit the broad side of a barn and John knows it. Looking down at the odd weight in my hand I say, "Look, I'm not going to play tough guy. I suck at it anyway. Promise you won't do anything stupid?"

"I don't exactly have a life to go back to, do I?"

"I know. I'm sorry about that...Really." She looks up at me and hopefully finds some sincerity in my expression. I check the safety and tuck the gun into the back of my jeans. "Come on. That trunk was an oven. I'm dying of thirst."

Children cluster around us, trying to sell picture postcards and candy. I buy a couple pieces, which slows our progress as we plow our way through them to the store. We're paying for drinks and snacks when I hear a cheery, "Hey Baby!" and John is giving me a peck on the cheek. "Ah, thanks." I puzzle over the oddness in his voice, and being addressed as "Baby," as he grabs a mango soft drink I know he favors off the counter, pops the cap and guzzles half of it. Taking a map from his back pocket and he leans over the counter to ask the clerk, "How ya doin'? D'yew know how to git to...?"

For a split second, I think he is having a stroke. John voice has switched to a weird nasal tone, dragging over his "a"s oddly, his "i"s exaggerated as "err"s,and words clipped in the wrong places giving an odd cadence to his voice as he bandies with the clerk over-directions. Then I realize he is trying to affect an American accent. I stifle the look of horror and I smile blandly at the clerk and the customers who, in the eagerness to help, are adding to the confusion of the directions. They do not seem to find anything odd about how John sounds, neither does Manasa.

In the wake of the adrenaline rush, I'm too tired and on edge to find amusement in it.

"What was that about? I thought we were heading for the border?" Manasa asks as we head to the car.

"We don't want anyone asking people here if they saw us to know that." His voice is thankfully normal again. "I doubt my performance in there will draw them off for long, but they are looking for an Englishman, so it was worth a shot."

I can't help but blurt in a harsh whisper, "Do I really sound that way to you?"

"Like what?" I mimick his odd cadence, a mash up something between Alabama, one of the New York City boroughs, and the East End of London. "Yeah and?" he says defensively. "Do you really want to talk about this now?"

"Yes!" I say, knowing I am being completely irrational but wanting an excuse to be mad at him.

"That's the way you lot sound to the rest of the world, yes."

"For chrissake! I'm going to pick up an RP in revenge."

"No," John says immediately as he opens driver side door. "Honey, I love you, but you can't even say "Bollocks" properly."

"What do you mean?" I close my door harder than necessary.

"Bahllocks" he imitates. "It's like fingernails on a chalk board."

Manasa interjecting from the backseat, "So you guys have been married how long?" cuts the argument off from degenerating into "do not/do too" and we drop it. John finds a break in the traffic and we pull out onto the highway, but that doesn't stop his scowling.

The sun is burning the last of the morning mist off the wide expanse of flat, verdant farmlands, dotted by houses and small villages nestled in the copses of tress, all fed by irrigation from the Hooghly tributary of the Ganges. Through the open window I smell the water and mud and green of life. In the distance the rolling hills creep their way up the mountains that edge the vibrant life Ganges River Plain.

So much life, and I am so distant from it. I wish things were better between John and I. I'd probably be enjoying this otherwise, but the weight of everything that is going wrong is a stone in my chest I can't shake loose. I look over at his profile, focused on the road with lines of worry etched into his brow and his thin lips compressed in a frown. _John._ I am grateful for his cool, clever, competence through this, obviously that part of him isn't dulled, but the connection eroding as every warm piece of him is being buried by something. The very idea of…us, ending tears my heart open, but we can't go on like this. I need him to talk to me.

But now its not the time. It was supposed to be, but it's not.

"Hopefully it will be a few days before someone finds their car gone." Manasa says into the silence.

"Even if we did, I switched the plates back at the store."

"Impressive." I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "All that before lunch. Pass me a candy bar."

"Didn't you eat breakfast?" John asks as Manasa hands one forward.

"...Wasn't hungry." I reply flatly. _This isn't the time, I know this isn't the time, but I can't help it. _

John's his lips compress into an even narrower line. "Shit."

I sigh sullenly. "We don't have to talk about it now."

"Not that, we have a tail."

"Cops?" I check my rear-view mirror.

"Not unless the Bengali Police are using rental cars," Manasa replies, looking behind us.

_Note: Armitage's American accent has improved greatly (he managed one sentence without sounding out of place), I just couldn't help but use it. ;)_

_P.S. I want to thank everyone for their patience (of you are still reading) through what was pretty crappy time for me. JPK: India is back to regular updates. Now that I have John out of the city, he can get his soldier on.  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

Well, wouldn't you know it, more internet drama. The last of this particular type. I apologize for the delay, thank you for your patience, I hope to have something up within the next couple days.

I mean it.

Honest.

Pinky swear.

I will also be expanding JP: Interim. Re-reading it after so long, I realized that I had seriously shortchanged Dariush and his and John's "Bromace" by rushing out of that story. I will be adding a chapter in between three and four.


End file.
